~2~
At night, lying awake on the floor, looking out the cracked window at the musty stars, she thinks on him. He's not handsome, but neither is she. She remembers her parents, when they were still parents, and not people she hates. They were neither of them comely people, yet once they were happy, as far as happiness went. She thinks on him, and she thinks on M'sieur Marius, who is beautiful. He's a beautiful boy. He's clean, and kind to her when he dares to come near her, treating her with a respectful pity that hurts. This man, on the other hand, is strange. He's elegant; he has a manner of a rich lord, of maybe how she imagines a man of the king's court, though it's clear he's not wealthy, or anything of the kind. His suit is shabby, but he wears it with the air of silks and lovely thick velvets, things she sees on the bourgeoisie and longs to touch, but never will.
She sighs, and startles, and glares as Azelma rolls over in sleep and grab onto her ragged sleeve. With a quick movement, she jerks away, and flees the house to run the streets in the ugly moonlight. She sees shadows, and shies from them; she sees lights, and hides from them as well. Finally, in hopeless horror, she curls under a table in an outside cafe, dreaming of sleep in awakeness, and feeling a soft, chilled wind kiss her cheeks.
~~~
When she sees him again, he looks different; a little more tired, a little more frayed about the edges, like her shift where the hem is coming down. Still, he pulls out a grin for her, lifting a hand in recognition.
"Why, but it isn't 'Ponine? 'Ponine, 'Ponine, musical 'Ponine. You're prettier every time I come across you. However do you manage it? Your flowing locks, your seductive smile..."
She kicks him in the knees lightly, curling in her toes. He collapses to these same knees, feigning injury, and attracting odd looks from passers-by. He then pauses a moment, observing her foot, and letting his eyes travel up to her calf, without, she notices happily, a trace of the look Montparnasse wears doing the same thing. After a moment, he makes his observation.
"You have blood on your legs, dear. Down the insides. No one has attempted to murder you, I hope."
She shrugs. "No. I climbed a wall, and fell over the other side. And... I fell on a cat..."
He nods seriously, not laughing at her. "I see." Then, solemnly, "Mademoiselle, I so rarely catch a glimpse of you, I wonder if you might join me at luncheon, which I shall strive to conform into a hideously bourgeoisie affair, despite everything Enjolras has drummed into my head these past months, thus serving to confuse you as much as can be conceived, and twist your spiritual being in a sad lump of unhappy clay, frightened into a snailshell at the prospect of a ladies' tea. Or, in the layman's terms, would you please accompany me to yonder cafe, where I shall squander my remaining francs to make us momentarily imagine ourselves prosperous? Or, in laymen's terms, would you please take lunch with me?"
She stares at him for a moment, then smiles, squinching her eyes shut with pleasure. He pats her cheek, and offers his arm. With a sudden soft thrill, she takes it, and he puffs out his chest and cheeks, and saunters along the pavement, doing his best impression of a self-satisfied turkey-cock. She can appreciate it almost, though her mind is full of racing half-thoughts and fragments, and something is fluttering strangely in her chest.
At night, lying awake on the floor, looking out the cracked window at the musty stars, she thinks on him. He's not handsome, but neither is she. She remembers her parents, when they were still parents, and not people she hates. They were neither of them comely people, yet once they were happy, as far as happiness went. She thinks on him, and she thinks on M'sieur Marius, who is beautiful. He's a beautiful boy. He's clean, and kind to her when he dares to come near her, treating her with a respectful pity that hurts. This man, on the other hand, is strange. He's elegant; he has a manner of a rich lord, of maybe how she imagines a man of the king's court, though it's clear he's not wealthy, or anything of the kind. His suit is shabby, but he wears it with the air of silks and lovely thick velvets, things she sees on the bourgeoisie and longs to touch, but never will.
She sighs, and startles, and glares as Azelma rolls over in sleep and grab onto her ragged sleeve. With a quick movement, she jerks away, and flees the house to run the streets in the ugly moonlight. She sees shadows, and shies from them; she sees lights, and hides from them as well. Finally, in hopeless horror, she curls under a table in an outside cafe, dreaming of sleep in awakeness, and feeling a soft, chilled wind kiss her cheeks.
~~~
When she sees him again, he looks different; a little more tired, a little more frayed about the edges, like her shift where the hem is coming down. Still, he pulls out a grin for her, lifting a hand in recognition.
"Why, but it isn't 'Ponine? 'Ponine, 'Ponine, musical 'Ponine. You're prettier every time I come across you. However do you manage it? Your flowing locks, your seductive smile..."
She kicks him in the knees lightly, curling in her toes. He collapses to these same knees, feigning injury, and attracting odd looks from passers-by. He then pauses a moment, observing her foot, and letting his eyes travel up to her calf, without, she notices happily, a trace of the look Montparnasse wears doing the same thing. After a moment, he makes his observation.
"You have blood on your legs, dear. Down the insides. No one has attempted to murder you, I hope."
She shrugs. "No. I climbed a wall, and fell over the other side. And... I fell on a cat..."
He nods seriously, not laughing at her. "I see." Then, solemnly, "Mademoiselle, I so rarely catch a glimpse of you, I wonder if you might join me at luncheon, which I shall strive to conform into a hideously bourgeoisie affair, despite everything Enjolras has drummed into my head these past months, thus serving to confuse you as much as can be conceived, and twist your spiritual being in a sad lump of unhappy clay, frightened into a snailshell at the prospect of a ladies' tea. Or, in the layman's terms, would you please accompany me to yonder cafe, where I shall squander my remaining francs to make us momentarily imagine ourselves prosperous? Or, in laymen's terms, would you please take lunch with me?"
She stares at him for a moment, then smiles, squinching her eyes shut with pleasure. He pats her cheek, and offers his arm. With a sudden soft thrill, she takes it, and he puffs out his chest and cheeks, and saunters along the pavement, doing his best impression of a self-satisfied turkey-cock. She can appreciate it almost, though her mind is full of racing half-thoughts and fragments, and something is fluttering strangely in her chest.